OLD: Melissa The Model
by It's Molly
Summary: Hollyoaks fanfiction! I'm just that cool.
1. Prologue?

**A/N: This is far too short, and not even really a fanfic as the character hasn't come into the program yet and isn't going to be Louise's niece's best friend even if she does. Louise doesn't even have a niece. Or a sister, for that matter (as far as I know). But... well... I was bored. And I don't know much about eating disorders other than what the few books I've read involving it say either. shot**

They're all against me. My family, who are supposed to love me, are in on it, sneaking food into my room and hoping that if they just stay silent, I'll eventually scoff it; the teachers at my school, who go nosing around if I don't go into the canteen and whisper amongst themselves about me; my so-called friends, who are constantly nagging me ("Oh, go on, it's only a cake/slice of pizza/ice cream") and trying to force me to see someone about "it", whatever "it" is supposed to be. I hate it the most because when they leave food in my room I sometimes can't help myself. Stupid fat me pigs out on the meal, and then I have to creep past them and try to stop them from hearing or seeing me as I throw up. In our holiday home there's an outside toilet, but back at home I have to be very careful. Had, I should say. I don't think I'm going back any day now. That's what Marie says. She says you have to ignore the past and move forward, keep trying, keep working. She's a model too; she's prettier than me. When I came down here, I was a bit of a mess - I left in a hurry and didn't plan enough. When I went to the agency to see if they had work she spotted me, and rescued me. I'm staying with her, her and her partner. I've told her I'm a bit ill to explain all the times I've been throwing up. She's lovely and doesn't pressure me but I feel rude if I don't eat any of the lovely food her partner cooks, and then when I've started I find that I can't stop and eat everything. I think she believes me but she looks at me oddly every so often. Sadly.

I'm leaving soon, so the 'ill' excuse should hold out until then. I've done quite a bit of modelling since I got here, for various things, but now that's run dry Marie suggested I go somewhere smaller. "There's too much competition here," she told me. "No matter how beautiful you are it's tough - you should go somewhere smaller. I've an aunt who lives up north, she's the sort of person who'll know if there's any work to be had. Here - I'll write down her address."

I've got the scrap of paper beside my bed. I love looking at it; it lets me dream about success and happiness. I keep imagining the village. It's quite small, so I bet everyone knows each other. It'll be like those awful sickly books I used to secretly enjoy - everyone will be so _nice_. It won't be like here, and they won't try and force me to do anything I don't want to. They won't bully me and try to fatten me up. And it'll be nice to chat to people of my own age again - Marie's two years older than me and although she doesn't treat me like I'm inferior to her I can't help noticing how much more mature than me she is.

Marie's handwriting is beautifully neat, and when I look at my writing beside it it seems clumsy and blotched. I can close my eyes and imagine the words, and it never fails to make me smile. Marie's aunt is called _Louise Summers_. It's a nice surname, _Summers_, it sounds friendly. I imagine her as quite like Marie: tall, dark-haired, probably quite pretty. After all, she's not much older than Marie. (Marie's mother is only thirty-seven, having been eighteen when she gave birth - imagine, only a year older than me - and Louise is _younger_ than her. My aunt's nearly _fifty_.)

And if she's like Marie then she'll look after me - so then I'll get work, and I'll be happy. And it'll serve my parents right for drying to drag me to a psychologist. A psychologist, I ask you! There's nothing _wrong_ with me. I mean I'm only human but I'm _fine_.

Or I will be soon, anyway.


	2. Arrival

**A/N: Oh dear! Well, again I demonstrate how little I know about not only eating disorders but also geography. Nevermind, it's only fanfiction (haha, please don't kill me for saying that, all you amazing fanfiction writers). I promise that the next chapter will be either from a canon character's POV or, at the very least, entirely about canon places & characters. I am in love with reviews. **

I have always liked travelling lightweight. It makes me feel more safe: the knowledge that, should it come to it, I can always just flee without hassle. I admit that I misjudged when I left home. But now I'm on my feet again, I'm fine, there's nobody breathing down my neck all the time about eating. _I_ can breathe again. Hell, never mind _breathing_, I can _live_! And yes, I know what you're thinking. I'm just another of those pathetic little girls dreaming of fame, right? Well, I can do this. I know that, I just know it.

Anyway, I like travelling lightweight. So when Marie appeared with these great big suitcases for me one day, I was dubious. I mean, on top of everything else they were such a bother to carry. I was escaping, I didn't want to be lugging half of London around. Well, I wasn't really escaping. I had nothing to escape from – I liked it here. Hell, I was _happy_ here... but all the same I liked the thought of tiny me winning against the big bad city. It made me feel like the main character in a thriller or something; I had to be doing everything right. But with the suitcases I looked – and felt – more like an evacuee than a romantic, adventurous heroine.

In the end, though, I agreed and took the cases. I mean... I didn't want to kick up a fuss or anything as she'd been so nice to me. So when Saturday came I was stepping aboard my train. It was this gorgeous night. It had been raining earlier in the week, but now it was just dark and lovely and clear. It was so beautiful that it made the dirt and grime beautiful too – although at first I'd adored city life, I'd begun to tire of it quickly. With that beauty around me, I nearly cried at the station. More than once. But I hadn't cried when I'd left home, I couldn't cry even then. And then all of a sudden, bang, I was about to leave... I turned as Marie hurried up to me.

"Goodbye," she whispered, and she swiftly pecked me on the cheek, then thrust something into my hands. I looked down, and in the light of the dusty electric bulb above I read the title of the book she'd given me. I was so angry I could've slapped her there and then, but the train doors slammed closed. I watched her standing on the station, forlornly waving at me, and I actually _shook_ with anger. That's how livid I was. I thought, I hope to hell we never meet again. The book was about eating disorders.

You probably think I was over-reacting. Well, I'd run away from home to avoid all that 'eating disorder' crap. It's not that I didn't think some people had problems. Yeah, you see people on TV and in magazines who are really crazy... bags of bones. But me? Oh, please. Making yourself sick once or twice because you've eaten too much? That's not bulimia, any more than smoking a couple of joints one day when you're down is cannabis addiction. People are so quick to jump to conclusions, that's the problem. And they never listen. I'd love to explain my point of view to my parents, but whenever I tried – and believe you me, I did try – they just shook me off. Or my mum started to cry, go on about how she'd messed up as a mother. Well, I suppose she was a pretty shit parent. But come on, at least I don't earn my money pinned up against dirty back alley walls, do I? And no, I don't forgive her. And no, I don't expect her to forgive me. But I don't hate her. AT least, if I do it's so very dwarfed by the hate I feel for my father that it's hardly even noticeable. He was the one who constantly lectured me about it. He was _obsessed_: he never stopped going on about how I was going to kill myself some day. He would never shut up. So you see why, after trying so _fucking_ hard to get away from all that, I was pretty annoyed when Marie jumped on the 'Hey, maybe Melissa's really ill and mentally disturbed too!' bandwagon. Because that's what she was saying, by giving me that book. She was saying that she thought I had a problem. Well, she could sod off. I had more important things to think about.

I wondered a lot, during that journey, what exactly Marie had told her aunt about me. If when I arrived they too were in on the fatten-Melissa-up plan, I was turning straight around and getting the next train back... where? Well, I'd work that out _if_ it came to it. Hopefully they'd have the sense to leave me alone. Hopefully.

Okay, I admit it. I was scared stiff, and not only in case they turned out to be determined to make me obese. Going somewhere new, somewhere completely unknown? It wasn't the most soothing experience ever. And it was made about a thousand times worse by the fact that I had nowhere else to go, nobody else to turn to, if this didn't work.

The station was quite far away from the place, which I was pleased about. Getting there straight away would have meant that everything was just thrown into my face too quickly. I hated waiting for Louise, though. She was late and I was standing there shitting myself, chewing my nails to pieces and thinking that Marie had phoned her up and talked to her about me... but eventually a car pulled up and a woman got out. She did look like Marie, but her hair was longer than I'd expected, her face less motherly. You might describe Marie as being _striking_ or _stunning_; you'd be more likely to describe her aunt as _beautiful_. She looked at me and nodded, smiling a bit.

"Melissa, right?" she said, coming over. I immediately liked her voice.

"Yeah. You must be Ms Summers."

"Louise, please," she replied, then laughed. "Nice to meet you." She paused, then suddenly blurted out: "You look..."

She stopped there. She'd started to fiddle with her car keys, her face tilted down towards them, so I couldn't see her expression.

"Tired," she eventually said. I nodded gratefully – well, I was. She pulled the car door open and I slid in. I don't remember the journey. I think I might have fallen asleep, because it only seemed to last a couple of minutes. When I got out, the night was still as beautiful as ever. There were houses around me. Louise took my arm – she seemed to know that I was too out of it to reliably walk on my own – and marched me to one.

"Home sweet home," she told me. "Well, until we get you on your feet."

"Is it just you living here?"

"No – there's my bloke and his sister. It's his house, really, but he agreed to let you stay here for a while when I explained the situation to him."

The situation? Since when had there been a situation, I wondered. But soon enough she was giving me some hot chocolate to drink – I poured it down the sink – and ushering me to bed. I slept, as the novels say, like a log.


	3. Such A Shame

The first thing I noticed was how thin she was. _Oh my God_, I thought. _Marie was right_. She'd warned me, but she said that I shouldn't mention it if I could help it. _She can get mad real easy_, she'd said to me, and I'd rolled my eyes at her for talking like an American. She likes to pretend she's a New Yorker. Daft, really – I'd prefer London any day. But Marie's generally quite sensible, so I normally leave her alone when she indulges in fantasy. I reckoned she was probably exaggerating her friend's moods, but it doesn't do to crowd people. Especially when they're teenage girls. My God, I remember how I used to hate people prying into my life. Of course, I never had an eating disorder.

We didn't talk much on the way. At first she sat straight up, hands neatly entwined on her lap, the image of courtesy. I suppose it was because she was nervous. As the journey went on, she slumped back; I think she fell asleep, because I had to shake her a bit to get her up. She was acting like a zombie as I dragged her into Calvin's house – someday soon, I am going to stop thinking of it as 'Calvin's house', I swear – and made us both some hot chocolate. I thought she might need it. She poured it down the sink when I was getting her bedroom ready for her; she didn't quite wash it away. I looked at the traces of brown liquid and I thought: _Oh dear_. But there wasn't that much I could do. I'd have asked Calvin about it, but he'd only worry. Besides, he was asleep. It was late, as I could tell from her sleepiness. I made the bed quickly and placed her into it quicker. She looked very peaceful, just lying there with her eyes closed, blonde curls cascading around her face. It was only if you looked closely that you noticed just how much her cheekbones were sticking out... I was glad that the duvet covered her body.

I went downstairs again. My hot chocolate was still sitting there; I hadn't touched it. I drank it, thinking about the way she'd refused to. I couldn't understand the logic behind it, but then I wasn't an expert on the subject, was I? It would be best not to interfere. I would just leave her to get on with it – find her a nice modelling agency to go to and leave it at that. It shouldn't be hard enough. She was very pretty in a traditional sort of way: blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin that made her appear fragile and delicate. But all the same, my first impression of her was that she looked a bit like a ghost. The idea of hugging her was terrifying – she'd probably snap in half. No wonder she'd had problems with her parents. I couldn't really imagine her as the daughter a mother would love to shop with and baby. From what I gathered from Marie (which wasn't a lot; apparently Melissa didn't like to talk about her past) her parents had taken a good look at her one day and started to worry about how thin she was and she'd ran. Poor them. Poor her. I stayed awake much longer than I normally do, thinking about her and how she was going to end up. It was a shame. But there was nothing I could do that would help.

It was such a shame, though...


	4. Pathetic Reflections

**A/N: These are fun... You know what's funny? I had the age of Marie's mother off by ten years – making her nine – in the prologue and I hadn't even realised. Proves that writing whilst just about asleep is bad for you... anyway. I found this worryingly easy to write (then again, I've always loved angst), and I feel I've got Hannah all wrong all the same. Ah, well.**

"You're pathetic," I whispered. My reflection gazed evenly back at me, unblinking. I reached out to the cold surface and she did the same. Predictably, tears began to tumble down my cheeks, blurring my features. I closed my eyes and leaned forward, my forehead resting against the mirror. I didn't want to look at her any more.

"Pathetic," I repeated softly, over and over again. My duvet was tucked around me, but I was still shivering. I stopped crying after a while, like I always do. I don't know how to describe how I felt then – just utterly useless. When I'm crying it's okay, because it's ordinary to be crying over an ex, but when I stop I feel I'm expected to be normal again and I can't do that. Sarah will want to go out or something and I'll have to chat to her, point out some guys I'll say are fit so she gets off my case. Anyway, my eyes were dry when my phone rang. I picked up quickly. It was Sarah, of course.

"Hey, we're going down to the Dog at about six, want to come?"

"Oh, who's coming?" _We_. I couldn't help hoping that this meant just her and Craig, but...

"Just me, Craig, John Paul and Spike. Look, Han, I've not got much money on this – I keep forgetting to top up. I'd better go. But I'll see you there, yeah?"

"Yeah," I said quietly. She'd already hung up. I sat down on my bed and thought, _Why the hell did I do that?_ It didn't matter, though – I knew that, come six, I'd be standing around the Dog, hating myself and wishing I was anywhere else. So why was I doing it? Because I didn't have the willpower to say no. Because Sarah wouldn't understand. Because, despite everything, I was still so desperate to see him that I'd go anywhere, do anything – even if it meant watching him and his boyfriend whisper sweet nothings in each other's ears all evening. Even if it meant another miserable, sleepless night.

I closed my eyes again and tried to lose myself in the blackness. I was disturbed by a knock on my door.

"Come in," I called out. My mum came in. She looked tired, upset; well, she would. Ever since the whole thing with Amy's kid had come out and she'd started rowing with Josh, she'd seemed tense and drawn. Part of me felt sorry for her, but after the whole thing with my uncle she pretty much deserved it.

"It's dark in here, isn't it?" she said, breaking into my thoughts. She drew the curtains open. I wanted to protest, but I didn't see how I could.

"Look, love..." She sounded every bit as tired as she looked. "You know that things have been a bit tough lately."

I just nodded, not wanting to either agree completely with her or argue.

"We – me and your father – have come to an agreement."

"An _agreement_?" I was staring at her. What sort of term was that? "Mum, he's your _husband_."

Then I realised. "You're going to get divorced, aren't you? You're going to split the family up and ruin _everything _and-" I started to cry, feeling like an idiot. Mum put her arms around me and pulled me towards her, not saying anything except to make comforting noises. Eventually, when I was quiet again, she spoke.

"We aren't getting divorced. We aren't even _thinking_ about it. No – we were thinking that we should go on holiday. As a family. We could have a good long rest for a month or two somewhere hot, eh?"

I looked up at her. Properly. And I thought: _She doesn't even know me_. She thought that I would be happy to get away, she genuinely thought I would be delighted at her news... I almost started crying again.

"I can't do that," I said hoarsely.

"Why not?" she asked, sounding surprised.

I couldn't tell her the answer, so I just shrugged. She didn't say anything, but after a minute or so she got up and silently walked out of my room. I glanced at the clock: it was five minutes to six. How could the time have gone so quickly? How long had I been sitting there? I got changed quickly, pulled a brush through my hair, slapped some make-up on my face. As I hurried past my parents' bedroom I thought I heard a sob from inside it, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't be any later than I already was. I was almost running through the streets when I collided with someone. There was a flurry of paper.

"Hey!" they said. "Watch where you're going!"

I glanced up to see a girl of around my age. She looked me full in the face as she picked up one of the sheets of paper she'd dropped. The first thing I noticed was that she was pretty, something I kept noticing in everyone that wasn't me... the second was the way she seemed perfectly confident.

"Sorry, sorry," I muttered, blushing.

"It's okay," she said. "They're nothing terribly important. And I don't want to start making enemies in my first week here."

"Oh, are you new?" I asked, quickly grabbing a few things off the floor and shoving them at her.

"There must be people popping up here all the time if you hadn't even noticed. But, with my highly intuitive powers, I sense that you're wanting to get somewhere? Don't let me hold you up."

I was off in a second. "Sorry," I called. Then I stopped, feeling guilty. "Look, I'll see you around sometime, probably. I could show you around..."

She smiled at me. "I'd like that. So, are you going to give me a name?"

"Hannah. Hannah Ashworth."

"Right. Well, goodbye, Hannah."

I didn't have a watch, but I could tell I would be pretty late. Still, never mind. I turned as I heard a yell from behind me. It took me a moment to figure out what she'd said.

_Melissa._


End file.
